


Like a House in a Storm

by CarrieAnn



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Movie Night, Nightmares, Playlist, Road Trips, Roommates, Season/Series 02-03 Hiatus, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2213601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarrieAnn/pseuds/CarrieAnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity asks Oliver to move in with her for a few weeks. Snapshots of their days as roommates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Day 0

**Author's Note:**

> Something I've been toying with since the finale. I would have loved it if Felicity and Oliver actually were roommates for the entire hiatus, but that doesn't ring true to me. And based on the spoilers for the Season 2.5 comics, this isn't true either, so we'll consider it an AU. But based also on what we know about the beginning of S3, I became more interested in the idea of them rooming together for a bit, to see how it deepens their connection and brings them closer to where they are in 3x01.
> 
> I have more chapters in the pipeline, just working on finessing them into shape. 
> 
> Title comes from The Airborne Toxic Event, The Storm.

She asks Dig before she asks Oliver.

First, because he’s a good judge of these things, and will tell her if she’s crazy. Also because she wants a test run at this conversation. But if she's honest, maybe the biggest reason is that she doesn't want to see the Dig Face if he finds out after the fact.

So on a Wednesday night, while Oliver is still out on recon and John is packing his duffel to head home, Felicity blurts out, “So I’m thinking about asking Oliver to move in with me.” Dig slowly turns from his position at the opposite table, eyebrows raised, and she clarifies, “Um, no, I mean, for the next few weeks? Until his lease starts.”

Since Oliver moved out of the mansion months earlier, he’d spent his nights at the Foundry or the Clock Tower, or recently, at the Four Seasons. The hotel is fine; great, actually, if you’re in Starling for a conference or a wedding. But Oliver has been there for four weeks now.

When they got back from Lian Yu, Felicity started gently bringing up the idea of finding something more permanent. She worried it might hurt him to think about that, but he actually didn't seem emotional about it. Just...uninterested, but eventually—when she started sending him real estate listings—he became resigned to the idea, though not particularly concerned about making it happen.

She got him to define his needs, so she could help narrow things down. With his privacy and security requirements, and his desire to be close to the Foundry, it actually didn't leave much to choose from. Luckily, Oliver wasn't very choosy. Felicity and Dig had to convince him not to just sign the papers on the first place he checked out, or any of the other disasters that followed. “I've had worse,” he would say, in the face of water stains and peeling paint and slanted floors, and they would remind him that he didn't have to put up with One Step Above a Deserted Island forever.

So, they found a nice loft in a multi-purpose building, with a private elevator, and he signed the lease. He’s in on July 15.

But it’s currently the middle of June, is the problem. Oliver, apparently, is going to spend the rest of that time at the hotel. Which is fine, she should let it go, but she can’t seem to do that, which is why she's talking to John.

He looks at her, appraisingly. He does not have Dig Face, which is encouraging, but he does purse his lips and ask, “Why?”

She sighs, “It’s been bugging me for awhile—him staying in the hotel. And I just feel like...he’s struggling. I catch him sometimes, with this look on his face, like...like I can tell he's reliving something—and oh God, take your pick of what horror show that could be—but then if you try to talk to him, it's like nothing... _ugh—_ I don’t know what I’m trying to say—”

Dig’s face has cleared, and he cuts her off, “It’s okay, Felicity. I’m worried about him too.”

She relaxes then, and knows she was right to talk to him first. He makes his way over to her desk and says, “I've been trying to get him to come to the apartment with Lyla and me, at least to have dinner with us, hang out, but he brushes it off. And he’s too quiet—even for him. Maybe everything is just starting to really sink in. His mom, Slade, Thea…”

“Exactly," Felicity nods. "He’s kind of...withdrawing. And I don’t blame him. Honestly, most of the time, I’m not sure how he keeps himself upright. I’d probably just take to my bed with a bottle of booze and a can of frosting and become a hermit, if I had his life.”

Dig smiles, “Nah, you wouldn't. But we all deal with things in our own way, and those ways aren't always healthy. Look at me: I ended up with a divorce and a side-gig aiding and abetting a vigilante.”

Felicity smiles back at him, "Well, on the balance, things did turn out all right."

He gives her hand a quick squeeze and continues, “Look, Oliver has been through things that neither of us can comprehend, and I only have guesses as to how he gets by. But right now...yeah, I’m worried.”

Her eyebrows knit together and she says, “Okay, so do you think it’s a terrible idea? Seeing if he would stay with me?”

Dig thinks for a minute, then says, “No, but Felicity—” he inclines his head at her and his voice gets softer, “I assume you've really thought about this? And you’ll take care of yourself?”

They don’t talk about it explicitly, not ever, but they also do talk about it, all the time. It’s in the background of every conversation they have that involves Oliver, and it threatens to come into the foreground more and more lately. So she doesn't have to deny or pretend not to understand or do anything but to say, “Yeah, John. I’m always careful. It’s practically my middle name. Well, actually—”

“—'It’s Meghan,’ yeah, I know. You need new jokes,” he laughs. “All right, I’m going home to provide foot rubs and snacks and whatever else my lady might require.”

“Good man. Give her a little extra ice cream for me, please. Heck, give yourself some too."

He smirks, lifting his duffel bag to his shoulder, “Will do.” He pats her arm as he walks out and says, “Hey. I hope he says yes.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity waits, futzing around on some of her feeds, while Oliver disappears into the shower stall. When he comes out, back in his jeans and henley, she catches a look—one that disappears almost as quickly as it appeared—that clearly reads that he was hoping she might have left. Squashing whatever hurt she might feel at that, she takes it as one more indication that she needs to go through with this. So she continues to wait while he restocks his gear, replaces the suit, moves some training equipment. But when he sits down to sharpen arrows, she’s had enough.

“Oliver?” she starts.

His face is a little tight, but he turns to her with a smile, “Yeah?”

She bites her lip. “I wanted to talk to you about something. Do you…have a minute?” she asks, looking toward his pile of arrows.

He looks like a trapped animal, for, again, just the briefest of moments, but then nods, a concerned but warm look painted over his features, and says, “Of course. What’s going on?”

He’s working so hard just to be normal, to be kind to her. A little shot of pain forks in her heart. She looks at him warily for a minute, then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I want you to move out of the hotel and stay with me for the rest of the month until your lease starts.”

She cracks her eyes back open, peering at him sideways. She can’t read the look on his face yet, but she feels it might be taking a turn toward the bad, so she plunges ahead. “Okay, before you say anything, just let me sell you on it. First: I have a bed. No! I mean, I have an extra bed, in that spare bedroom, which is basically just storage for old computer parts right now and it seems extravagant and I have total stereotypical Jewish guilt about it, so if you used it, for any amount of time, you’d really be doing me a favor. Second: I don’t actually understand your financial situation right now, but I bet you could stand to save a few thousand dollars, and that is exactly what would happen if you stopped throwing money at the Four Seasons. Third—”

“Felicity.”

She tries to plow on, “Third—”

He puts a hand on her forearm and she stops. He squints and says, “Where is this coming from?”

“Truth?”

He makes an impatient face, and she blows out a breath and says, “Just, you know, feeling like this might all be a bit much, even for you. And like maybe you’re retreating a little, back to your island like last summer, only you didn't actually go this time. Or I mean, I guess you did—we all did—but then we came back and now you’re going again...metaphorically.” Oliver's face is impassive. She puts a hand to her forehead and mutters, “Coulda used another run-through.”

Shaking her head, she pushes on, her voice softer, “Look, Oliver, I know I don’t understand what you’re going through, not exactly, and you can totally tell me to mind my own business, and I will try. I swear I will try. But I...thought maybe it might be...nice, if you weren't alone, all the time, right now. It might be nice for me, too.”

He keeps his eyes on her, but doesn't respond, his face still unreadable. She feels a strong urge to babble, to list every reason, up to and including that she is terrified that she's losing him. But with great effort, she keeps herself quiet and waits for him.

Finally, he looks at a point somewhere to her left for a few seconds, and when his gaze returns to her, it is slightly nervous but more open than she's seen it lately. “Okay,” he says.

Felicity’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wh-what?” she chokes.

“Okay," he says again, his mouth curving up on one side. 

She blinks, repeatedly. “Sorry— _what?_ ”

Now Oliver lets out an actual laugh, the first Felicity can recall in weeks, and says, “Okay, I’ll stay at your place. As far as your plans go...it’s not the worst I've ever heard.”

“Oh, wow," she stammers. "Good. Okay, huh, I really thought this was going to be more of a fight.”

Oliver looks a little distressed at that, and says, “I do have a few conditions, which I know is rude, as a guest, but...” he shrugs and she nods for him to continue. “I get to pay rent. Include utilities and whatever other expenses you can think of and let me know what it is—I want to pay my share. Also: you let me upgrade your windows and doors like I've been... _suggesting_ for months.”

She gives a nearly imperceptible nod, still stunned they've gotten to this point in the conversation, and half-convinced he will change his mind. “Fine, done.”

“And: if anything happens, gossip-wise, you’ll let me handle it.”

Felicity’s eyebrows furrow for a minute. She hasn't given a single thought to that. Oliver has been lying low since Lian Yu, and with Queen Consolidated in flux, he isn't exactly the hottest bachelor in town anymore. But still, Oliver Queen will probably always be of interest to the people of Starling, and the whole country. It’s easy to forget when he doesn't have to wear that particular mask so often anymore. She recovers and nods, “Happily. I don’t want any part of that. But I’m sure it won’t be an issue.”

“Mm-hmm,” he assents, though he seems less sure. “Last thing: I am not...easy to be around right now. You need to be upfront with me if I.... And I reserve the right to remove myself from the situation, too, if necessary. Okay?”

“Oh, I have no problem telling you when you’re being a pain." She reaches out a hand to shake his. “Deal.”

He holds onto her hand a beat longer, then asks, a little shyly, “So, when were you thinking?” 

“Anytime, really. Tonight? Or, I guess that wouldn't be ideal since it's like midnight and I'm pretty sure there's laundry strewn all over my house. Tomorrow?”

Oliver smiles, looking at the floor, then up at her. “Checkout is noon, I think. After that?”

She smiles too, big and broad and ridiculous-feeling, but she finds she doesn't care to stifle it. “Um, I guess I’ll probably just stick around home tomorrow then, and clean up a bit. Unless you need some help?”

He shakes his head. “No, I can handle it. I’ll bring lunch when I come over.” He’s struggling to maintain eye contact with her. It makes her heart flip.

They look at each other a minute longer—Oliver at the soft smile flickering across Felicity's face; she at the hint of light returning to his eyes—before Felicity picks up her bag and makes a quick exit, as though afraid to give Oliver the chance to change his mind. She texts Dig as soon as she sits down in her car.

 

> He said yes  
>  12:11 am
> 
> Really doing this I guess.  
>  12:11 am
> 
> Oh shit  
>  12:12 am
> 
> I didn't really think he'd say yes.   
>  12:12 am


	2. Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver moves in.

They’re standing in her kitchen, throwing out the remnants of Big Belly Burger Oliver brought with him, as promised, and Felicity motions to the refrigerator. “Uh, so you probably noticed it’s like a bachelor fridge cliche in there, all condiments and alcohol and Chinese food containers. I swear I do eat things other than takeout, but I wanted to wait so we could grocery shop together.”

“You didn't know I was going to agree to this until yesterday.”

She purses her lips and nods, “Ah, yeah, that’s true. But I hoped. And I just wasn't in the mood to shop, so I kept putting it off. Plus, you’d be surprised what I can pull together with whatever random things I happen to find around here. Do you watch Chopped?”

“Do I—no, I don’t know what that is.”

Felicity rolls her eyes, “Of course you don’t. Do you ever watch anything other than the news?”

Oliver just raises his eyebrows as if the answer is obvious, so she walks into the living room, picking up the remote, “Okay, well, just so you know, sometimes in this house, the TV is tuned to frivolous crap. Like the Food Network, or Bravo, or SyFy. These are _tel-e-vis-ion net-works_ , Oliver.”

He rolls his eyes, but he seems more relaxed than he did when he arrived an hour earlier. She hits the Guide button on her Tivo remote and pages down to the Food Network. “See? Okay, Chopped is basically on like a constant marathon on this channel. The chefs have to make a dish out of these four weird things...you’ll start to pick it up, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. Are we really going grocery shopping?” he asks.

“Yeah, unless you have something you need to do this afternoon?”

He looks like he’s going to say something else, but then changes his mind. “No, we can go. I just—never really have.”

She stares openly at him for a minute and then gives a little shake of her head, as if to clear it. “Um, wow. Okay, of course you haven’t. But...that is a little ridiculous, right? Like, even in college—”

His look encourages her to change her tack, so she says, “I mean, I actually love grocery shopping. This is going to be great! Well, probably moreso for me, because I get to lead you around like an alien who has just landed on this planet—”

“Felicity, I have been _in_ a grocery store, and I have actually seen food before,” he interjects.

Grabbing her purse with one hand and his arm with the other, she guides him to the door, “Sure, yeah, I get it. Just, quick tip, you don’t have to shoot the food before you take it home and cook it. You just pay for it. It’s an exchange of goods for currency….”

He’s shaking his head, but she sees a little smile there before he shuts her car door.

 


	3. Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first morning as roommates.

Technically, Oliver hasn't even been at Felicity's for a full day yet. It's 6:00 a.m., and he's lying awake in her guest bedroom. He had a good night's sleep, by his current standards, which means anything above 4 hours and which doesn't include waking up in a cold sweat, stomach churning and heart racing like he’s just sprinted a mile uphill. He chalks those episodes up to bad dreams or adrenaline, but another, quieter part of him knows there is an actual term for them.

When Felicity asked him to move in, the other part of him—the strongest, loudest part—wanted to say "No" quickly and with finality. But the quiet part knew that she was right. He was losing it, and he wasn't getting better on his own. 

So here he is, in Felicity's apartment, and she's sleeping in the room next door. He weighed the risk of being this close to her against the risk of being alone, and took a chance on her. Now he knows what her room looks like, and what she sleeps in (last night at least it was a tank top and boxer shorts with little mice dancing across them), so add that to the list of things he has to push out of his mind on a regular basis. Like, right now, for example, it’s so easy to picture her, curled on her side on her bed; maybe her tank top is riding up a little, and her hair is loose across the purple pillowcase, maybe her sheets are tangled between her legs—

Oliver rolls out of bed to the floor, and starts a plank workout.

 

* * *

 

After a shower, he heads to the kitchen. It’s 7:00 now, a reasonable time to be awake on a Friday. But still nothing from behind Felicity's closed door. She's taken on some contracting work, so her hours aren't as rigid as when she was at QC. Maybe she'll have a better summer this way, he thinks. It would be the only upside to losing his company, and his friends their jobs.

He’s not a great cook, but he learned a few things in his years away, and he feels semi-comfortable cooking fish and meat now. And nothing is easier than bacon. He digs around and finds a pan to start it cooking. As it does, he keeps looking through the drawers and cabinets, getting acquainted with the space.

Here are Felicity’s cookbooks, pages flagged by post-its, stacked on a shelf next to canisters that are neatly labeled. Coffee, Sugar, Flour. Here is the pantry, and the shelf with the secret stash of candy. She tried to block it from his view when they were unloading groceries, but he stole two packs of Skittles from behind her back and tossed one her way. Here are the mugs and bowls and plates; Fiestaware, a rainbow of jewel tones. Here are water glasses, and big globe wine glasses, and margarita glasses with blue rims, and shot glasses that say Cape Cod. 

Here is a place where Felicity lives her life, that she has filled with herself, that she is sharing with him.

The Queen mansion kitchen didn't feel like this. He and Thea breezed in and out to get what they needed, and used the microwave and the coffee maker, but otherwise, no one in the family did much of the cooking or cleaning or shopping or living in that place. When he got back, it felt like even less of a home. Everything in it had changed, and so had he, and it was sort of like living on a TV set of his own house, where the details were just slightly off. But he had hoped that someday it would feel like home again, and it was getting there before he moved out. And now his mother....

He's just hit "Brew" on the coffee maker when he senses movement behind him. He turns to see Felicity still in her pajamas, hair pulled up into a messy bun. He makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Ugh, the grinder. Sorry about that."

Felicity smiles at him with sleepy eyes behind her glasses, "Please don't ever apologize for making me coffee and bacon. I mean, assuming that's not just a single serving."

He smiles back, his heart beating a little faster than he would like, and says, "Of course. It's the least I can do. I was going to scramble some eggs too. Is that okay? Or are you an over-easy kind of person? Because I can't make any promises about—"

"Scrambled is perfect. Bacon and coffee—this is all perfect. You are perfect," her smile falters for a second, but then comes back. "Thank you." She looks at him for another minute, standing in her kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl, and then says, "So, can I do anything to help?"

"Well, I'd say you can pour the coffee, but, um..."

She rolls her eyes at him as she reaches for two mugs, "Look, I'd happily pour your coffee every day for the rest of our lives as long as I'm not being paid to do it." She sets the mugs down and sighs wearily, "You know what I mean."

He thinks he might.


	4. Day 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and Oliver talk through her nightmare.

The first time Oliver does wake up with his heart pounding, it’s because he hears Felicity scream.

“ _OLIVER!_ ”

His eyes snap open and he’s out of bed—knife in hand—before he finishes yelling her name in return.

He sprints the nine steps to her bedroom door and bursts into the room, knife at the ready. His eyes urgently sweep the scene, but Felicity is already apologizing, “Oliver, it’s nothing. I’m fine.” She’s on her knees on the bed, and she sinks back to her heels, running a shaky hand through her hair.

He flips on the light and sets the knife on her nightstand, recovering his breath. “What—what happened?”

She blinks twice and gives him a quick smile, the kind that doesn't make it past her lips. “Nothing, just a bad dream. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

But he doesn't miss her hand absently rubbing her throat. His shoulders drop. “Slade.”

Felicity nods and looks up at him. Then, following the line of his eyes, she realizes what she’s doing, and breathes a quick, “Oh,” before dropping her hand. She moves to the edge of the bed and he sits next to her, head down.

“Felicity, you never said anything, but I was there. I know how...terrifying it was. I’m sorry you have to relive it—”

“Oh. No—” she shakes her head and puts a hand in the crook of his elbow. “Oliver—it wasn’t me, in the dream. It was you.” He looks up at her, eyebrows furrowed. “Slade had _you_. Had a sword to your—” she winces and swallows, then continues with a little shrug, “and I was just stuck in place. I was trying to run, to get to you, but I couldn't move, and I had to just—watch.” He puts his hand on top of hers, and she attempts a smile but ends up with a grimace instead. “I woke up before it got too gross.”

He returns that grimace, and her face falls. “Oh, Oliver. Oh my God, I’m such an idiot. Your mom. I’m sorry—“

He shakes his head and presses on her hand underneath his, and whispers, “No. Shhhh.” 

They sit quietly for a minute, and then Felicity says, “This isn't really how this was supposed to go. I mean, believe it or not, I don't have nightmares very often. I kinda thought you’d be the one screaming in the night, and I would help you, somehow. That was the whole point. But the truth is, Oliver, I don't actually know what to do about any of this and I don't know why I thought I could help. I'm not any kind of expert on post-traumatic stress, and I—"

“Hey,” he says in his low, steady voice. Felicity meets his eyes. “You're doing all that I need you to do. More than you know. It's not your job to fix this. It's mine."

She's not entirely convinced, but Oliver continues, "Do you want to talk about it? I mean, not the dream, but what…happened?”

This time she manages a real smile, however small. “Sometime, probably, but not right now. And, hey, stop stealing my lines." She bumps his shoulder. "I’m OK, Oliver, I really am.”

Now it's his turn to look unconvinced, and she twists her hand so she can hold his. “I’m proud of what we did. But I’m still new to this grave danger stuff, so maybe my subconscious is just…finding ways to process.”

He nods, and Felicity continues, “I mean, you've been doing this for, what? Seven years now? When you were on the island, did you just train yourself to stop dreaming altogether?”

He exhales a little laugh. “The opposite actually. I had my share of nightmares, but they couldn't really compare to, you know--"

"Your daily terrible life?"

He shrugs his assent. "And anyway, I had good dreams too. Dreams about home, my friends, my family. Sometimes a good dream was the brightest spot in my day.”

 _But not anymore,_ Oliver thinks, wrapping her hand tighter in his. _Not since you._

That thought is so clear, it suddenly seems like it’s ringing in the air around them, written across his forehead, pouring from his eyes. He quickly drops his gaze, focusing on the frayed hem of her plaid pajama shorts, crumpled against his gray sweats. Their clasped hands, resting against his forearm. She is so close. He can suddenly feel the connection points between them more acutely, as though a switch has been flipped, and he feels a distant warning going off in his head. 

Felicity tilts her head slightly to catch his eye. Her face is soft now, and something loosens inside of him. He can tell the nightmare is fading away from her, and he feels grateful that he could be there for her the way she is always there for him. “And recently?" she asks. "How have your dreams been lately?”

He squeezes her hand and gets up to leave, holding onto her gaze. “Some are better than others.”


	5. Day 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quiet car ride home after a case.

It’s 2 in the morning, and they’re in Oliver’s sedan, heading back from the Foundry. Oliver’s leg is freshly bandaged, and Felicity’s head is pounding. The adrenaline has receded, leaving a killer headache in its wake. Team Arrow had a big night; staking out and eventually tangling with some goons who used to run with the Mayor. The other Mayor. Dig made it out with a few bruises, but Oliver took a knife to the quadriceps. Only made it about half an inch in, so the leathers did their job.

Felicity offered to drive, but Oliver brushed it off, so she's slumped in the passenger seat, absently staring at the streetlights flickering past the window. Her mind is wandering over the events of the evening when she feels Oliver’s hand slip into hers. For the first minute, it feels like the kind of comfort they give to each other all the time. Until Felicity loosens her grip, and instead of letting go as they usually would, Oliver tightens his hand around hers. She doesn't react, other than to turn her hand so she can lace her fingers through his. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world; as if they always drive like this.

Once, when she was in high school, Felicity took a class trip to a state park south of San Diego. They camped along the shoreline, and near one sandy beach spot, there was a rocky outcropping where local kids would jump from the cliffs into the deep spots below. Felicity and her friends watched for awhile, but couldn't resist hiking up to the cliff. When they got there, she was hot and sticky, and the deep indigo water looked amazing. She could feel how cold it would be, shocking and then soothing against her sweaty, sunburned skin. She had observed the locals; she understood the physics. She knew when to jump. She knew where and how to jump.

But she didn't jump. Because your foot could slip—right there at the edge; you could slide just a little bit out of alignment, and hit your head on the way down, or break an ankle, or rack your body against the rocky side of the deep pool. Anything could happen.

When Oliver brought her to the mansion, and said that he loved her, she felt like she was on the edge of that cliff again, and she was frantically doing the math in her head; working out exactly how to jump without breaking anything along the way. But they didn't jump. And now they're on a different path than the one they came in on, and she can’t exactly see where they’re going, but it feels like they must still be near the edge because now and then she can hear the waves crashing.

That’s what it’s like, when he holds on to her hand across the console. Like catching the glare of the sun glinting off the water and realizing how close you are to the vast ocean. Every time they touch, they veer closer to the edge of that cliff, and Felicity feels how easy it would be to just slip over and let the tumbling waves carry them.


	6. Day 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory Movie Night! Oliver and Felicity bond over the course of two movies.

Oliver turns the deadbolt and slides the chain lock into place, and over his shoulder, he calls out, “Felicity?”

From the living room, she calls back, “Yep! Just getting set up in here!”

Oliver smiles to himself as he drops his bag by the door. He makes his way into the living room and stops short. Felicity is already in her pajamas, which is a thing he now sees on a regular basis, which is fine, which is...anyway, even if he does feel sort of warm all over every time he sees her like this, so comfortable and relaxed and wearing so little...well, it's manageable. He’s managing.

Felicity is making a “Ta-da!” gesture over the coffee table. It’s laden with snacks—bowl of popcorn, some cut fruit, and what looks like her no-longer-secret candy stash—along with a pitcher of ice water, and a bottle of wine. Plus one of her laptops, of course. On the couch, she has piled pillows and blankets. “Okay, so we’re all set for movie night. No last minute emergencies, right? We're still doing this?”

Oliver shakes his head slightly, and smiles, “I guess we are. This is...quite the spread.”

“I know!” Felicity says excitedly. “You never sit down for more than like ten minutes, so I am going to do what it takes to keep you in place. Long enough to watch at least one movie you missed while you were gone." She looks at him, appraisingly, "So glad you're wearing your sweats because the dress code is Comfy Sleepwear—this is an elastic-only zone. You have to be ready to fall asleep on the couch; that's just standard for me on movie nights, fair warning."

She perches on the couch and opens a program on her laptop, which is then mirrored on the TV. It’s a library of movies. “So. I sorted my collection by year, and this list is the ones from late 2007 through 2008. We can worry about the other years—and the other _shocking_ gaps in your film education—some other time.”

Thea tried to do something similar when Oliver first got home—to catch him up on pop culture that he missed—but he wasn't very receptive. He kept wandering out of the room, calling it an early night, taking calls from Dig and Tommy. Eventually she stopped trying, and Oliver barely noticed. Now he wishes he had focused on doing those little things with her and their mom; that he’d spent less time trying to shield her from life, and more time living it with her.

So Felicity suggested movie night, and he said yes. He’s been doing more of that lately. Since he agreed to stay with her, there has been something new; a glow pulsing around the edges of his grief, his self-loathing, his anger and dread. And whenever he finds it, he tries to hold on, to say yes, to follow where it leads, like a beacon. 

But now, his heart lurches a little. It hits him at strange times—the dread, the anxiety, the sense that nothing good can stay. It's looming now, maybe because of how easily she says that there will be other times. Does she not know? That anyone can be taken, at any time?

 _Maybe she knows something else,_ the quieter voice suggests. _And isn't that why you're here?_

He perches next to her on the couch and opens the bottle of wine while she starts to scroll through the titles, some of which sound vaguely familiar to him. And then, there's— “ _The Notebook_ ?!" she exclaims in mock surprise. "How’d that get in there?”

"Absolutely not," he says.

"No, of course not," she replies. "We're looking for something you've never seen before, and I bet you've seen this more times than you'll admit. Also, I have the whole Dripping Wet Bearded Gosling dialogue memorized, and it's nearly impossible not to recite when it starts up, and that would be like one level of humiliation higher than I'm prepared to go right now."

"Maybe I was too hasty in ruling it out," he says.

She shakes her head, already looking ahead at other titles, "Nope, don't even try it." He looks at her in her ancient grey V-neck and pink polka-dotted shorts, almost bouncing with her excitement to share these things she loves with him. His heart picks up speed again, but it doesn't hurt this time.

"Ooh, _Atonement_...too on the nose? Hmmmm...maybe we should ease into this with a comedy. _Pineapple Express_ , _Step Brothers_...I bet you would have liked those, back when you were 'Ollie.'" She throws up some finger-quotes and sounds uncomfortable saying it, then almost immediately wrinkles her nose. "Is that weird? To refer to him—you—as a different person?"

"No, it's not weird; Ollie was different. Weird is hearing you say it."

"Not a problem; it won't happen again," she smiles. "Okay, how about _Forgetting Sarah Marshall_? Viewer advisory warning: island setting. Also, sexual content, puppets, Russell Brand."

"I have no idea who that is. And I'm fine with the rest. I still like islands, in general. As long as they have functioning airports."

She nods, lips pursed into a smile, "Okay, well, I don't think this won any awards or anything, but it's cute and funny, and that makes it our winner. Strap in, you're about to watch your first full movie in seven years." Her face gets a little softer. "I'm actually kind of honored to do this with you. I know that sounds silly."

He has to swallow over the sudden catch in his throat before he says, "No, it doesn't."

 

* * *

 

"One more?" Felicity asks, pulling herself up from her side of the couch.

Oliver raises his eyebrows. It's midnight, but it's also Saturday, and they have nothing specific to wake up for in the morning. Plus, he actually enjoyed the movie, and watching it with Felicity. "I guess it's not much of a movie night if we stop at one."

She smiles, "That's the spirit. I'll be right back." She jumps up from the couch and slips off to the kitchen.

He hears some popping, and then Felicity reappears with another bag of popcorn in hand. "Obviously one bag wasn't enough. And I'm not even asking if you want any—you're having some; your perfect body can take the hit." Her head lolls back and she sighs, "Whatever. I'm not going to apologize for the ridiculous things that come out of my mouth after midnight, okay? Or anything I say before coffee. Or after—" she picks up the wine bottle and peers at it, "two-ish glasses of wine."

"Deal. You don't actually have to apologize at any other time either," Oliver says. She tilts her head skeptically as she pours the fresh popcorn into the bowl, and he continues, "I mean, there are certainly worse things you could say to a guy."

Felicity groans, tossing a kernel in his direction. He snatches it out of the air, in a motion so quick it's almost invisible, and her eyes go wide. "Wait..." she whispers, and gathers a small handful of popcorn. She throws the pieces, one by one, rapid fire, all around him. He catches them all, to Felicity's mounting glee, even as she ups the challenge by tossing a tiny handful in the air over his head. She's in hysterics, and can barely squeak, "Oh my God, you're like The Matrix, with popcorn." When she catches her breath, she says, "Okay, let's try this."

She passes him the bowl and angles herself up on the center cushion, facing him. Still giggling, she holds her hand next to her head, cupped upward. Oliver smirks and picks up a kernel, then arcs it toward her hand. She catches it and pops it in her mouth, holding her other hand over her head. He hits that one too, and she can't quite catch the popcorn because she's shaking with laughter, but she plucks it from the top of her head and stretches her arm way out to the left. Then she basically performs Madonna's Vogue routine, and he hits her hands every time, though she drops most of them. He's laughing as hard as she is by the end, harder than he's laughed since...well at least since Tommy, but maybe a long, long time before that. The sound of it puts a sort of amazed smile on Felicity's face, like she's just seen a magic trick.

When she recovers the rest of the way, she says, "Okay, I'm a little punchy, but I honestly don't know why that was so hilarious. I guess because you went through hell—which, _whoa_ , that is not the funny part—but you developed all these incredible skills. And also...that one. You're a Master of the Popcorn Arts."

Oliver smiles back at her, "Not exactly what I imagined when I was throwing and catching blades of grass with Yao Fei."

Her face straightens a little and she takes a few seconds before saying, "Hey. Tell me about that." She swallows, and says lightly, "If you want to, I mean."

He looks at her, taking a breath, and finds he does want to. "I was...just a dumb kid. So impatient to get out of there, so sure I knew best. Even after Yao Fei started working with me, I would still fight him on his lessons at every turn. Because I wouldn't have any clue why I was doing these stupid things, over and over and over. Slapping water, that was Shado, but it was the same idea. Pinching sand—until I could let it all go but one grain. Then I had to hold that grain for hours, rolling it around between my finger and thumb. And then I had to switch to doing it with the next finger, the other hand. It was tedious and horrible. Helps with gripping that bow string though, among other things.

"Throwing, catching, and dodging was another drill he put me through, until he...and then Shado took over my training. Little bits of grass, leaves, shells, little pebbles, then bigger ones. Whatever happened to be around. Gradually we built up to knives or stones, and I realized that it was easy now—instinctual—to determine their heft, and the way they would fly, and how to aim them. And once I saw something coming at me, I could gauge how to dodge it. Catching, well, when it comes to weapons it's more like swatting, but it was helpful in other ways too. Catching bait to fish with..." he trails off and smiles at her. "And grabbing popcorn out of midair."

Felicity blinks a few times to clear her mind, before smiling, "Well, that's obviously the highest form of that particular skill." She picks up one last piece of popcorn and lobs it toward him. He leans forward and catches it in his mouth with a grin.

"Now you're just showing off," she says, reaching for her laptop. "Okay, are you feeling like something light or something tense and action-y?"

"Hmmm, I could do something action-y," he says.

"Okay, follow-up question: which of the following keywords most appeals to you? Western, Coen Brothers, Legal Thriller, James Bond, Zombie Virus Apocalypse. Uh, that last one is all one thing, but I could definitely find three distinct options if you only want one."

He shakes his head, "Not necessary. How about Bond? I guess I missed the sequels."

With a satisfied smile, she says, "Okay, just to warn you: Quantum of Solace is easily the weakest of the three, and I'm probably going to call out a number of problems with the tech. Of course, you should feel free to critique Daniel Craig's ass-kicking technique, if you're so moved."

Oliver gives her a half-smile and watches her queue up the video. And then she grabs a pillow, props it against his side, and curls up along the length of the couch, her head resting against his ribs. He swallows, and a warm, buzzing feeling spreads over him, behind his eyes, through his chest and stomach, out to his fingertips.

He can exert an incredible amount of self-control when he puts his mind to it, and he is putting what feels like his entire mind to it right now. But maybe he's focusing on the wrong parts, because somehow by the time the opening credits sequence begins, his arm has come to rest behind her. His hand gradually flattens against the middle of her back, his thumb occasionally brushing across her spine.

Another dent, another blow to the barriers between them. He wonders how many more they can sustain before they collapse completely. He wonders how much longer he will fight to keep them up.

He can feel his heartbeat in every inhale and exhale, but he can feel hers too, bounding along, and sometimes he can feel her breath hitch and it's all he can do not to pull her up across his lap and wrap her arms around his neck and his around her waist...but he has some fight left in him, it seems, and he manages to go no further than this.

They watch the whole movie that way. Felicity gradually inches up the pillow, Oliver curving toward her so that her head is almost cradled by his torso. He barely follows the plot, but suspects it might have been unintelligible anyway, and Felicity doesn't bother to point out the technological blunders. In fact, they're both pretty silent, and still, aside from Oliver's hand on her back, from start to finish.

When the credits roll, she sits up with a stretch. They read each others' faces for a moment and then she smiles and says, "I'd call that a success. Next time: 2009 through 2010."

He nods his assent and helps her up from the couch. "Hey, you can go to bed. I'll clean this up. Please—"

"'It's the least I can do,' right? Okay, I won't stop you—thank you."

He's very aware of the inches that separate them, a distance that feels impossibly far after the two hours they just spent next to each other. And then he closes that distance, pulling her toward him in a soft hug, wrapping both his arms around her as she drapes hers over his shoulders. "Thank you, for all of this," he says, running his fingertips along the ends of her hair. They breathe together for a few beats, and then Felicity pulls back, smiling, "Good night, Oliver," and walks to her room.

"Good night," he replies, and as he watches her close the door behind her, he knows that something has shifted. Somehow, despite his diligence, they reached a different level of intimacy and tenderness, one that feels new. Like the beacon, the glow around the edges, burning right through all the sickness inside him. And Oliver thinks that if that's what was behind the barriers that were breached, then maybe it wasn't so bad to let them fall. And for the first time, he wonders whether it would be so bad if they all fell, someday.

 


	7. Day 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity finds Oliver after a sleepless night.

It’s just shy of 5:00 in the morning when Felicity gets up to get a glass of water and catches sight of Oliver through the patio door. He’s leaning on the balcony railing, head bowed. It’s not the first time she’s found him out there like this, but the other two times were in the first week he stayed with her, and she just let him be, even though it went against all her instincts. This time she's just too tired to fight herself.

So she pours a second glass of water, and as she walks through the living room, she tucks a quilt under her arm. Then she slides the patio door open with her elbow, and Oliver slowly turns his head to look at her. His eyes are reddened and she's not sure he's slept at all. Her heart clenches and she takes a moment before she says, "Hey, I don't want to bother you. I'm just going to sit out here." She sets the glass of water on the railing next to him, and lifts the quilt up a bit, saying, “In case you need it.”

He doesn't respond, just nods once and turns back toward the buildings behind hers. Felicity sits on the Adirondack chair closest to him, and lays the blanket over her legs. Then she leans back, closes her eyes, and waits for Oliver to do whatever he needs to do next.

The sun is starting to rise when he moves, dropping down into the chair next to her. He meets her eyes as she unfolds the blanket to cover them both, and as she lays it over him, he asks, "So why did you decide to come out this time?"

Felicity sighs, "You knew I saw you the other times. Of course." Oliver shrugs, and she says, "Well, I guess I can only stand not doing anything for so long, and it didn't seem like that approach was helping anyway. But I...probably should have just asked you what you wanted. So, is this okay? Would you rather be alone—"

He shakes his head and gives her a little smile, "This is good. Definitely warmer, which is nice."

She smiles back and then it fades and she says, "Okay, then I'm going to push my luck. Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Not much to tell. Just, sometimes—not as often anymore—I can't sleep. I have these…” he exhales. “My heart races, hard breathing, I feel like I’m going to be sick—I actually have been, a few times. Most of the time, they come from nowhere before I fall asleep, or they wake me up in the night.”

“Panic attacks,” she says, gently.

After a few seconds, he nods. “I can get back in control after a few minutes, but afterwards, it’s hard to sleep. So then I’m just in this bad frame of mind, and all I can do is stew in it. And lately, I just think a lot about my mom. Not even the bad stuff, just random memories. Like: every spring she would find something wrong with the landscaping at the house and want to start from scratch. It drove my dad crazy. One year, I was probably 12, he insisted that absolutely no changes would be made. But he was away the week of Memorial Day on a business trip...although, probably not all business now that I think about it. Anyway, he came home to find the driveway and entryway lined with new topiary, and in his office, these two really elaborate spirals, on either side of his desk.”

Felicity whistles, “That’s some Grade-A spite.”

“She didn't particularly like being told what to do," he smiles.

She raises her eyebrows, “Hmm, I didn't know that was hereditary.” Oliver smirks and they sit quietly for a minute, and then Felicity says, “I think you should try to sleep. Do you think you can?”

“Doubt it.” And then he gets a kind of shy look on his face, a look that makes her head swim, and he says, “Want to watch something mindless with me?”

She would agree to just about anything when he looks at her like that, but this is an easy one. “You know mindless junk is one of my favorite genres.”

She moves to stand and he helps her up. As they head into the living room, he says, “Just don’t ask for an opinion on what we watch because I don’t feel capable of even that level of thought right now.” He stretches out on the couch and stuffs a pillow under his head.

Felicity grabs the remote from the coffee table and moves to sit on the loveseat, but Oliver lifts the pillow and his upper body simultaneously, creating a space for her on the couch, and not even thinking, she slips into it. He rests the pillow on her lap and settles in.

When he glances up at her, she gives him what she hopes is a normal-looking smile, but which feels like maybe it looks a little off-balance. She _feels_ off-balance. Like her head hasn't stopped swimming, like maybe 5:00 was too early to wake up for the day, like maybe she’s still not awake right now. She wonders if he felt like this the other night. She wonders if this is how it starts—if they'll just do this all the time now, like the hand-holding in the car. Then she wonders where it stops; if she should stop it, or if it’ll just die off on its own once he’s gone. And, oh God, that’s happening in less than—

“Felicity?”

“Mmm-yeah?” she says, blinking to clear her head.

“Are we going to watch something, or just look at the menu?”

She apparently turned the TV on and pressed the Guide button at some point, but that was as far as she got. “Ha, guess I’m not a hundred percent awake yet.” She surfs for a bit until she hits a bingo in the movie channels.

“They made a movie out of that stupid Macgruber sketch?” Oliver asks incredulously.

“No, shhhh, you’re sleeping and this is all a dream,” she says, patting his hair. She hits play and keeps her eyes trained on the TV, but she leaves her hand by his head, brushing the tips of his hair occasionally. When she ventures a glance down, 15 minutes into the movie, Oliver has already fallen asleep. Felicity looks at him for a minute. Sleep has removed years from his face and she can see a little boy under the scruff and scars. Cautiously, she touches his temple, and trails her fingers down his face. Just once. And then she folds her arms into herself, lets her head sink back, and closes her own eyes.

When she wakes up a few hours later, she’s curled up across the couch, the quilt is draped over her, and Oliver is gone.


	8. Day 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and Oliver take a little roadtrip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a playlist of the songs I quote in this piece--you can see it [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLYin3imhm5ZvoUusMmc3Kx6NOPW2WpkOS)[](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLYin3imhm5ZvoUusMmc3Kx6NOPW2WpkOS)  
> The tracklist is in the endnotes.

* * *

_Would you always_   
_Maybe sometimes_   
_Make it easy?_   
_Take your time_

* * *

 

“Felicity,” Oliver says, dropping his duffel bag at his feet. “We’re just going overnight, right?”

Felicity laughs, “Yes, relax." Tossing two more bundles in the trunk, she points, "That’s just pillows and linens. And my laptop, in case we want to watch something, or you know, in case I start to get itchy from being disconnected for too long. And a Sat-phone, courtesy of ARGUS, in case we have no service up there. And some groceries, and a cooler. Hmmm...probably should have put that in first.” Shaking his head, he shifts things in the trunk to make room for it.

Today is the day her new windows and doors are being installed, along with a security system that will be wired in. She’d been very agreeable to the whole process, as Oliver described it to her on Thursday. And then she asked, “So, we’ll need to be out of the house for the whole day on Saturday?”

“Yeah, probably easier that way."

“Okay, and Roy is going to cover things that night, right?”

“Yeah. Lance seems to think it should be pretty quiet this weekend.”

“I see...” she started, with a sneaky smile.

“Wait…” he said, realizing too late that he’d walked right into it.

“No— _you_ wait! We did absolutely nothing to celebrate the 4th, unless you count putting some drug runners in jail...which I guess is a service to the country, kind of patriotic, if you think about it—but no. No! It doesn't count. We deserve a break. What I’m saying is,” she rocks back and forth on her heels, and sings, “Rooooooooooadtriiiiiiiiiiip!”

He didn't even bother to put up a fight. The yes comes more easily all the time.

Now, as he shuts the trunk, he says, “Okay, you were going to tell me about this place?”

“Oh right. So, Paul from the coffee shop—I did a little favor for him awhile back. No big deal, just helped him with a teensy problem with an ex and some photos—anyway, so as thanks, he offered up his family’s lake house in the mountains. When I got the keys from him yesterday, he gave me these really detailed directions,” she says, holding up a strip of receipt paper. “It’s about a two and a half hour drive. He says it’s really pretty and quiet.”

“Mm-hmm," Oliver says, as he opens her door. "Are you sure he didn't mean to take you there himself?”

She sighs as she buckles her seatbelt. “Nah, his boyfriend might get jealous.”

Oliver smirks, and gets into the driver’s seat, ready to take his first roadtrip in years (first voluntary one, anyway), because this is the kind of thing that happens with her. He’s learning.

“You can pick the music if you want,” she says, handing him her phone.

Oliver gives her music library a cursory scroll, saying, “That’s okay. It’s your stuff. You should pick whatever you…oh. Maybe this playlist titled ‘Roadtrip With Oliver,’ for example?”

She smiles, “So you do know how to use that app.”

He just raises his eyebrows. "You did this yesterday?"

“It was easy!" she replies, not really answering the question. "I sorted by year, just like with the movies. Then I just took out anything that might be appropriate at Verdant or spin class, did a little culling from there, and this is what’s left.”

“So, no Lady Gaga, you’re saying? No…” he pauses, searching for something, “One Direction?”

She beams, “Oliver! Those references are relatively up-to-date!” She bumps his arm, and says, “And no, neither of those. It’s mostly like strings and keys and dudes who sing in high voices. Driving into the mountains music.”

“Wasn't aware that was a whole genre now,” he says, as they get on the road. He doesn't comment on the music, but every so often, she sees him glance for a couple of seconds at the stereo display, and she suspects he’s taking mental notes.

 

* * *

_I get lost in my mind_   
_Lost,_   
_I get lost,_   
_I get lost_

* * *

 

Oliver’s in a bit of a daze, having sunken into that mode where the lizard brain has taken over—eyes watching the road, hands operating the wheel and signals, foot hitting the pedals—and his conscious mind is elsewhere. Aside from the music, they've been driving in companionable silence for about 15 minutes when Felicity says, as though mid-conversation, “I have this theory.”

A laugh burbles up from his chest, involuntarily.

“What?” she asks, peering at him.

There’s no safe way to say _I love everything about the way you talk,_ so he goes with, “Nothing. What’s the theory?”

“Okay, so you know how Isabel hated me?”

Oliver tenses slightly and shifts in his seat. “I think she kind of hated everyone.”

Felicity tilts her head in acknowledgement of that assessment. “Sure, but she didn't give _Dig_ the Evil Eye every time he crossed her path, for example. Well, until she was trying to kill him…. But by that point, I think the Mirakuru sort of made her eyes All Evil All The Time.”

“Were you...going somewhere with this?”

“Right. Yes. I think she just didn't like me, from the beginning. Which, great, I didn't like her either. And maybe she just found me irritating—that’s certainly possible. Another obvious possibility is that she saw me as a threat to her master plan, because of my loyalty to you, and because of how she, you know, thought we were sleeping together, and that’s how I got my job.”

Oliver sighs, “Felicity—”

She barrels on, “But my theory has to do with that. I think maybe it hit too close to home for her. Her...thing, with your dad. She probably always felt insecure and resentful about that, and maybe when she saw me, it reminded her of all sorts of things she didn't want to face. Like, you know how they say the things you hate most in others are the things that bug you about yourself?”

Oliver considers this for a minute, and then says, "I think any of those things are possible; maybe all of them. But you can't really know, and it probably doesn't matter in the end. She was a hateful person.”

She doesn't seem satisfied, and he feels like he said the wrong thing. He drives quietly for a few minutes, searching for the right thing, and then clears his throat and says, “I shouldn't have made you my executive assistant.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “That’s what you got out of that?”

He wonders too late if maybe it wasn't the best idea to do this while driving. “No. I mean, I shouldn't have done that, without talking to you about it first. I didn't consider...how much your job meant to you. And what people would think.”

She bobs her head a couple of times and then says, “Would you say you regret it?”

He feels like he’s walking into a trap again, somehow. “Uhhhhm, I don’t regret having you as my EA, but I would approach it differently.”

“So you are…?”

He darts his eyes over to her, and she’s looking at him expectantly. “Oh! God, yes, sorry! I’m sorry. Sorry.”

She laughs, “All three apologies accepted. And you can make it up to me when you get your company back,” she says, settling back into her seat, feet up against the glove compartment.

He smiles, “All right, what do you propose?”

“Oh, I don’t know. My own department; C-Level title; corner office…you’ll think of something.”

“Sounds like you've done all the thinking for me.”

“Well, that _was_ my job, for seven months,” she says. “And I’m just kidding about all that. Although, I really could have run the QC IT department—better than the idiot who was in charge of it while I was there, anyway.”

He nods, “Felicity, I have no doubt you could run the whole company if you wanted to.”

She squints at him thoughtfully. “So…co-CEO, you think?”

 

* * *

_We'll go down this road_   
_'Til it turns from color to black and white_   
_Or do you not think so far ahead?_   
_'Cause I been thinkin' about forever_

* * *

 

About an hour in, they stop for coffee and to fill the gas tank. As they get back on the road, Oliver reaches for his cup as Felicity is setting hers back in the holder, and his hand grazes hers. Without looking, he feels around until he finds her again, running the back of his fingers over her wrist, folding her hand into his, resting them on the seat, against her thigh.

It’s become a thing they do now, sometimes, when they drive together. It’s like he finds it intolerable to be close to her for too long without being in contact with her, somehow. He can’t seem to stop and, of greater concern, it’s getting harder to remember why he should.

 

* * *

 _My eyes can't look at you any other way  
_ _Any other way  
_ _Any other way_

* * *

 

Once they reach the foothills, the drive to the lake takes about 30 minutes going slow on gravel roads. At the bottom of a steep driveway is a tiny A-Frame cabin, nestled among the trees, only about 30 feet back from the shoreline. Felicity opens up the cabin, following Coffee Shop Paul’s directions to turn on the power and water, while Oliver unpacks the car.

When he gets inside, Felicity is nowhere to be seen. He assumes she’s settling into a bedroom, until she comes down the stairs from the loft, and he realizes she was changing into her swimming suit. She’s wearing a white t-shirt as a cover-up, but it barely comes past her hips, and it’s a Capital-V-neck, so the edges of her coral halter top are visible.

He's sending all available resources to control situations elsewhere, which is probably why the water bottle he tries to set down on the counter ends up toppling over against his leg, pouring water on him and the floor.

"Yikes!" She hurries over. “I got this stuff,” she says, bending to move their groceries out of the way of the water. She's trying to help, but is not helping, with the bending. Not at all.

Oliver spins and grabs a towel from the tote bag behind him, wiping down the counter, the floor, himself. "Sorry about that," he says, a little sheepishly.

"Oh, it’s fine. I don’t think it even got on anything," she says. She seems not to have registered anything strange about his clumsiness, for which he is thankful.

He focuses on keeping his eyes on hers, not moving, not looking anywhere else, and then he clears his throat and asks, “So, is there a bedroom up there?” Then a second later, “I mean—is that why you were up there? Are there—is there a bedroom down here? Should I—where should I put my stuff?”

Her eyebrows raise gently, but she otherwise refrains from comment on that ramble. She just says, “There’s the loft upstairs, and another bedroom down here. I thought you might be more comfortable staying on the main level.”

She’s right, of course, and with a little nod, he grabs his bag and heads into the short hallway to the bedroom. Once inside, he drops to the bed for a minute, allowing his brain to reorganize, to make a place for Felicity in a bikini. To make that okay, to make it normal, to make it manageable for the next 24 hours at least.

 

* * *

_She's talkin' to me with her voice down so low_   
_I barely hear her_   
_But I know what she's sayin',_   
_I understand because_   
_My heart and hers are the same_

* * *

 

It’s almost too small to be a proper lake, really, but the water is like looking into a sapphire, and the tiny strip of grassy shoreline at the end of the stone stairs is surrounded by trees and rocks, and it’s mountain views all around. They swim on and off for a few hours, and there are so many things Oliver never knew—about Felicity, and how she moves, how her skin feels in the water, how her eyes look in the sun—so many things he can never unknow. And some quiet part of his brain dreads the work he will have to do to put that all away later, but the rest of him would happily do that and more, all that is necessary, in exchange for this day.

Felicity has spread a sheet out over the grass, and on top of that, two giant beach towels. She sits facing the water, knees hugged to her chest, while Oliver is leaning back on his hands. He intentionally positioned himself a little farther back on his towel than she is on hers, to take a little break from the full onslaught of her everything. But it doesn't help, because there is still her back, and the curve of her hips, and her hair, drying in waves.

She’s regaling him with the story of her most recent contract gig, which went south when she got in a fight with the in-house IT guy, and as she starts a string of jargon and expletives, Oliver shakes with silent laughter. She feels it and twists her head back to look at him. “What?” she laughs.

And this time instead of saying nothing, he hears himself say, “You just make me happy,” before he can stop it.

“Oh,” she says, and then looks like she’s going to say something else, but just says, “oh,” again instead.

That sits between them for a minute, and then Felicity asks, "Did I tell you my mom's been calling again?"

Oliver sits up a little straighter. "No," he says. "I didn't know."

She nods slightly. "Yeah. I'm not sure why." She pauses for a minute, and then says, "It's like she just knows. That I'm sort of vulnerable to it right now. Because of you—your mom."

Felicity's looking toward the water, so he can't really see her face, just part of her profile. He has an urge to move up next to her, but she never talks about this, so he just leans forward and lifts her hand from her knee, holding it on the sheet between them.

She glances sideways at it with a little smile. "So...I'm considering it. Trying again with her. I mean, there's been so much damage over the years. And I didn't want to take that chance again; I don't want to." She picks an invisible speck off the blanket, and then continues, haltingly, "But the thing is, maybe it doesn't feel like as big a risk—if she just disappears on me, or hurts me. Because I'm not alone this time. She's not my only family anymore."

Oliver's head drops forward, his heart running away from him, and he grips her hand a little tighter. Maybe a lot tighter.

"You, and Dig…” she pauses and then laughs, though it sounds a little shaky, "even Roy is starting to feel like the bratty little brother I never had."

Felicity turns her cheek into her knee, looking at him briefly. "You know what that means to me. And I wouldn't..." she trails off, with a slight shake of the head.

"But I—" she lifts their clasped hands, tangling her fingers with his, watching his thumb run over hers. "I think about this."

Oliver's heart stops for a few beats, then thuds back into a higher gear. 

She lays his hand back between them and then lets go of it. "I think about it a lot." She stands and shrugs off her t-shirt and walks down to the water, before Oliver has recovered the ability to form thoughts. 

He lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding, and it comes out in the shape of her name. And then his throat tightens, filling with the words he didn't say. _I think about it too, all the time. Today. Last week, last month, last year. Since I showed up in your car with a gunshot to the chest; since I showed up in your office with gunshots in my laptop. Every day since. All the time._

She is wading in now, diving when the water reaches her waist, and with no other recourse available, Oliver follows her in.

 

* * *

_You say just what you mean_   
_And in between it's never as it seems_   
_Help me to name it_   
_Help me to name it_

* * *

 

_Taptap-pound-tap._

_Oliver's home,_ she thinks, fumbling on her side table for glasses and phone in a sleepy haze. Confusion starts to set in when she doesn't find either in their usual place, and then it comes back—they're at the lake house. But there was...the knocking? (Oliver had suggested it when he moved in—if he was going to get home after her, he would do his special-super-secret knock before and after opening the door, so she would know it was him.  _Taptap-pound-tap._  She'd identified it as "F" in Morse Code, and he'd just smiled that inscrutable smile. She agreed to it more for his benefit than her own.)

Felicity gets her glasses on her face and checks the time. 11:30. She hadn't been asleep for more than a half hour. Just one of those dreams you have in the early stages of sleep, she thinks, sliding back onto her pillow.

They had a fairly quiet night while Felicity gave Oliver space to do whatever he was going to do next. Patience is not her strong suit, but it's something she’s been working on because she can feel that it’s the right approach for him right now, since he moved in and even before. She makes a gesture, leaving it between them like an offering; then she backs away and waits, letting him come forward to accept it if he wants to, and when he does, she meets him back there, in the middle.

Felicity didn't intend to make this particular offering today, but then there was just a lot of touching. In the car, in the water, on the shore. All the time now. And then Oliver said she makes him happy, and it was just like the last straw. Because it's starting to feel like either they talk about it soon, or something’s just going to happen. And while she’s always been a jump-first-questions-later-if-ever girl when it comes to relationships, this one is different. Not just because it’s Oliver, and she is terrified of messing up what they already have. It’s just different. In a big way. In a scary way. In a way she’s maybe not quite ready to examine.

And for the whole lovely night, through dinner and a campfire, she could tell that Oliver wanted to say something. She kept catching him watching her, with this gentle, thoughtful, insanely, frustratingly perfect look on his face. So she gave him time. But he didn't say the thing he was trying to say, and eventually she took pity on him and turned in for the night.  

But now, just as she's getting back into sleeping position, Felicity hears him walking up the stairs to the loft. Not a dream, then. She sits back up and runs a quick hand through her hair, but gives it up as beyond help. "Oliver?" she calls down. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says, reaching the top of the stairs. "Sorry for waking you up." He's standing just inside the room, making no move to come closer, so she shifts to the far side of the bed and indicates the nearer side. He looks at it warily for a moment and then comes over and sits down, one leg bent on the bed, the other off the edge. She looks at him, concerned, "What's going on? Are you having a—"

"No," he says quickly. "No, it's not that. Just can't sleep, and I—I needed to tell you something."

She's about to joke about his timing, but the words die in her mouth when she sees his face. His guard is down. She just nods, and turns to him fully.

He takes a breath. “Felicity, you said something earlier, and I wasn't ready for it. Because I work so hard not to think about this." She winces a bit at that, and he shakes his head, "But I can't stop it.” 

They look at each other for a long minute, and then he continues, “I think about it—about you and me—all the time. How it would work, whether we can...have that.” She manages only to exhale in response. He reaches up, running his fingertips along her jaw. “What it would be like, to...” he trails off and she realizes that their faces are drawing dangerously close to each other. "And I don't know how it happened, or why I even feel like I have any right...but I realized today that I've started to believe it might be possible."

Heart pounding, she tilts her head back slightly, lifts a hand to cover his and quietly says, "But not yet."

Relief and regret flash across his face, and she can feel them on her own, and then he sighs, "Not yet." He brings her hand down on the blanket between them, just like that afternoon, and looks at it. "I just need this, right now. More than I've let myself admit. And I think I need more time, for anything else."

She smiles and nods, "Yeah. I think I need that too."

He smiles back, that warm, dreamy smile that makes her feel floaty, and then he blinks and says, "Okay. Sorry again that I woke you up. I'll let you get back to sleep." He moves to leave, but she doesn't let go of his hand. He looks at it, and then at her.

"You'll sleep better here," she says, neutrally.

"Felicity..." he says, in a low voice that does things to her insides.

“On top of the blankets, one foot on the floor, if that will make you feel better."

He still looks unconvinced, so she says, "Look, we just came to terms, right? We're good. But I want you to get sleep, and if you go down there, I won't sleep either, because I'll just be thinking about you." And then she cringes and says, "About you not sleeping, I mean."

He holds her gaze for a minute. "Okay, if you're sure. On top of the blankets. But are you—could you get back under them, please?"

She looks down, confused, then her eyes widen. No bra. Right. She squirms back into the blankets, and says, "No problem." Then she hands him her glasses, and says, "Will you get the light?"

He flips it off and settles into the bed. She waits for a few seconds, and then she feels him searching for her hand, and she smiles in the dark and finds his, weaving their fingers together. "Good night, Oliver."

And then he pulls her hand up and presses it against his lips for just a second. "Good night," he whispers.

 

* * *

 _This is not the sound of a new man,  
_ _or a crispy realization  
_ _It's the sound of the unlocking,  
_ _and the lift away  
_ _Your love will be  
_ _safe with me_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs quoted from Felicity's playlist, in order:  
> Two Weeks, Grizzly Bear  
> Lost in My Mind, The Head and The Heart  
> Thinking Bout You, Frank Ocean  
> Detlef Schrempf, Band of Horses  
> January Wedding, The Avett Brothers  
> Myth, Beach House  
> Re: Stacks, Bon Iver  
> The Storm, The Airborne Toxic Event (not in this chapter, but the title comes from this song)
> 
> Thank you all for reading this far! Next up, Oliver moves out, and a bonus day...


	9. Day 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Move-out day.

Through both of their open bedroom doors, Felicity calls, "Hey, Oliver? Are you ready to go?"

He's not, but that's not what she means, so he says, "Um, just about. Got a text from the movers—they won't be there until 2:00. Not much to bring in before then, so..."

"Okay, want to head over there in like 30?" He looks up to see her standing in the doorway of his room— _her room,_  he corrects himself. She purses her lips for a second and something flashes across her face. "I guess we're not coming back here together, so I should probably drive too."

Oliver's eyebrows twitch down and he says, "Well, I was going to go to the Foundry afterward. Were you...?"

She looks a little relieved. "Oh, right. I guess so. But, you'd have to drop me off later—"

"I don't mind," he says quickly.

"Okay," she says, smiling again. Her eyes scan the room. "I'd offer to help you pack, but it'd be kind of an empty gesture since you never really unpacked."

"I travel light."

"I know." Her smile gets a little sad for a second, then returns to its usual brightness. "Um, I found your check on the counter? That's not the amount we agreed to, and you know it. It's not even the same number of digits, Oliver."

He shakes his head, "It’s close enough. I owe you so much more than that; more than I’ll ever be able to repay."

With a sarcastic head tilt, she says, "Please. I don't need remuneration for moral support."

"Consider it severance then, since I lost you your job."

She narrows her eyes. "You really are going to be a formidable opponent in the boardroom someday." At his grin, she sighs, "Fine, I give." Then she seems to remember something else. "Oh, it's probably better to do this here than at your place..." She fishes in her back pocket and produces her housekey.

He gives her a puzzled look, and she says, "I found it with the check, but I'd actually rather you keep it. I don't want it to get misplaced or anything while you're unpacking, so..." she trails off, handing it to him.

He pockets it, but there's still a question in his eyes, so she continues, "Well, I—I would feel better, knowing you had it, if anything were to happen. Wouldn't want you to have to break through any of my fancy new doors and windows."

He allows a small smile, though the implication makes him ill. "Guess that makes sense. I promise not to take advantage."

"Actually, I hope you do," she says, already cringing by the end of the sentence. "Not—that's not—what I mean is: I know these three weeks didn't magically make everything better, Oliver. I know you're still struggling."

He barely bothers trying to keep anything from Felicity or Diggle anymore anyway, but he’s not lying when he says, "Things _are_ better. I'm doing okay."

She shrugs, "I know you are, a lot of the time. But in case you aren't, some days. In case you can't sleep, or you just feel off, or if you find that it’s too quiet without a constant running monologue from your roomie...then I want you to use that key. Seriously, anytime, day or night."

He swallows and says, "That is...very generous. But that could cause problems for you, and I—"

"What problems? You can still text me before you come over so I can make sure I'm decent and embarrassing items are carefully hidden from view. Though I'm actually not sure what that would be, because I think you've already stumbled across just about everything that would embarrass me."

He desperately does not want to have to say what he is trying to make her understand, so he maintains eye contact as he stammers, "Well, you could be busy or—or- _or-have-guests—_ and I don't want to impose or make things awkward for you."

Her eyes narrow in confusion and then pop open wide and she says, "Oh—oh! No. That's not an issue. I won’t have guests. No guests. No...awkwardness...nothing beyond the usual high level I operate on, like this moment, for one excellent example," she finishes, quietly, flashing him a weak smile. Then her brows knit together and she turns and walks into the hallway. He follows her without knowing why.

She stops after a few steps, muttering, “Wait a minute,” and spins on her heel, almost running into him. She catches herself against his chest, and her startled eyes meet his. “Oh. You’re here. Great,” she says. “As I was saying: wait a minute. Why are we talking like this? Why are we doing this?”

“Doing what?” he asks, eyes dropping for a second to her hands, which she doesn't seem to notice are sort of slipping down his torso.

“Talking about _guests_. Like I don’t know what you’re saying; like you don’t mean anything by it.”

Since the lake, things between them had felt more honest and intimate than ever, but this morning had felt distant; probably nerves about leaving. He sighs, “I'm sorry; I don’t know.”

“Okay, well, here it is: Oliver, I won’t be having any non-platonic guests. I won’t be going on any dates. No one is coming home with me unless that person is you.” Her eyes are bright and serious and unwavering.

His heart feels weightless but he hears himself say, “I can’t ask—”

“You didn't ask. I’m telling you the facts. It wouldn't be fair to any party in that scenario, and it won’t happen.”

He holds her eyes for a minute, before smiling, “Okay. I have something for you, too.” When he pulls out his own key from his jeans pocket, she just shakes her head and laughs.

“I’d just feel better knowing you have that,” he says, echoing her words, opening her hand to fold the key into it. "Knowing that you might stop by, anytime you want to. Knowing that if I hear a key in the door, it will only ever be you." His smile softens. "And I know we still need some time but I—” his breath cuts off for a second, and he recovers, “I don’t think it’s going to be long.”

Her eyes pierce into his and for a brief moment, it feels like maybe it won’t be any time at all. But instead she leans into his chest, and lets him wrap his arms around her back, as hers snake around his waist. “Always gotta one-up me, huh?"

He laughs and, not thinking about anything except feeling good and open and happy, he turns his head down and kisses her hair. She hugs him a little tighter in response, and he closes his eyes and does it again. It’s enough. His arms around her, her head on his chest, their keys in each other’s pockets, their promises still ringing in the air. For now, this is everything.


	10. Days Between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interstitial chapter, covering time after Oliver moves out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains very non-accurate, vague S3 spec based on spoilers. Just a warning!

He does use that key. Over the next few months, Oliver comes to Felicity’s apartment once or twice a week. Sometimes it’s planned—movie nights, dinner together after work is done at the Foundry, dropping something off as an excuse to hang out for awhile. But other times, he just can’t bear the thought of his own place, which can seem, as Felicity predicted, too quiet. Or he lies awake, mind reeling and heart racing, and he just needs to leave. Often, he rides his motorcycle until that’s just not enough and on those nights, he almost always he ends up at her door.

_Taptap-pound-tap._

Then his visits taper off. And Felicity knows it’s not because something’s wrong, but because it’s actually finally right. This is really happening and they can both feel it and he can’t just stay at her house anymore because now everything is going to change again.

And it does, and for just a moment, everything is bright and beautiful and better than either of them hoped.

But then it gets so much worse.

And afterward, nothing is the same, at all.

Then one day, she ends up at this awful charity gala on Ray Palmer’s arm—because they’re working late and he forgot about it, and he asks her to go with him because he doesn't know all of the potential investors as well as she does. And then Oliver’s there—of course he’s there, of course he is—and she’s so distracted by how much she wants to be there with him that for a second she's confused when she sees his face fall. And then she remembers that it’s Ray’s arm around her waist. Ray leading her around the room. Ray who appears to be—no, who actually _is—_ her date.

She tries to convey this to Oliver, using only her eyes across a crowded room, but maybe they can’t communicate that way anymore, because he doesn't get the message.

But when she finally makes it to the Foundry later, and she finds her key in front of her monitor, that message comes across clear as a bell.

Her anger flares—at the passive-aggression, at the childishness, when _he_ was the one who—but it fades as quickly as it appeared. Because she knows he didn't leave it there in anger, or spite, or to hurt her. He left it because things have changed and he can’t bear to hold onto it anymore. She finally cries then, as she has not allowed herself to do since this whole mess started, squeezing that key until it bites into her hand, leaving marks that won’t go away for days.


	11. Epilogue: Another Day 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next time Oliver comes to her house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that I posted three chapters today, so make sure you go back to Chapter 9 if you were caught up! Also, note that this and the previous chapter contain some spoiler spec for S3.

Felicity is lying on her side on her couch, in the same position she collapsed into 20 minutes earlier, when she thinks she hears knocking. Her head twitches sideways, but she doesn't move otherwise. One ear is smashed into a pillow, so she's just managed to convince herself that she imagined it when she hears it again.

_Taptap-pound-tap._

_You've gotta be effing kidding me._  It had been a long day at the Foundry, and things had gotten a little testy toward the end. Everyone's nerves are frayed, including her own, so she tried not to take any of it personally. But she was ready for at least a few hours away from all of them, and she has no clue why Oliver would be here right now, when she knows for a fact that she did all she could possibly do before she left. So her ire is up as she stomps to the door, saying as she opens it, “Oliver, unless the whole world is coming down around us…” At his grim face, her eyes widen. “Wait, is it? Right now?!”

He quickly shakes his head, “No, still tomorrow. We've got about 18 hours before The League converges on Starling. That's not why I'm here.”

She sighs, relieved, “Okay, good, you had me thinking the timetable moved up in the last hour somehow.”

They stand looking at each other across her threshold until he raises his eyebrows a tiny tick and she says, bemused, “Oh. Right. Come on in.” She turns around, and he dips his chin and follows her in.

She walks toward the couch, but right-angles away from it at the last second, not wanting to sit there with him. She ends up just standing next to her bookshelf, which also feels awkward but in a more acceptable way. He stands in front of her, apparently not intending to speak unless spoken to, and that is annoying because she's not the one who showed up on his doorstep. So she prompts, “Uh, want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

He clears his throat and says, “Yeah, I—well, Dig told me you were having a tough time.”

She huffs out a wry laugh, “Ra’s Al Ghul is descending on the city with an actual League of actual Assassins who want to kill us and everyone else they have to in order to get Sara and Nyssa back. You almost died last night. Again. We have a lot of tough times, Oliver, but none that have brought you here in the last seven months, so you’re going to have to be more specific about this one.”

“Fine,” he says, seeming to realize she isn't going to make any part of this easy for him. “Dig told me you ended things with Ray.”

She narrows her eyes at him, before going into a full squint. “Are you—are you serious?” She leans down to the coffee table, picking up the glass of wine she hadn't touched since pouring it a half hour earlier. “Obviously I ended—whatever it was—with Ray, Oliver. He lied to us. What did you think I was going to do?”

“I just  _didn't_...think about that,” he says carefully.

“Ohhh, we’re back there again. Should have known. Well, anyway, it happened last week, and it hardly seemed important, given everything else.” She takes a sip of her Malbec before setting it on the bookshelf. “And I know you're not sad about it, but you know the stupidest part? I think you would actually like him, under other circumstances. You have a lot in common, and despite some horrific judgment, he is a really good person. I probably would have liked him too, under other circumstances.”

Oliver's eyebrows twitch. “What circumstances?”

Felicity scoffs, then pushes her glasses up to her forehead and pinches the bridge of her nose, and almost to herself, she mutters, “Wow, okay, nope. Not doing this tonight, because tomorrow is going to be the suckiest day that ever sucked, and we both need to rest up.” All the anger drains out of her in that instant, and she takes his arm with both hands, turning him toward the door. “The truth is I’m just worried about all of us, and ready for this to be over. So I thank you for your concern—I am fine.”

“I’m not.” He stops, taking her hands off his arm. They immediately become fists, but he won’t let go of them.

She winces. Of course he’s not okay; she just isn't used to being this person for him anymore. “Oh. I’m sorry, Oliver. Whatever’s going on, of course you can talk to me. Or, did you want to stay here? Is that why you came over? Or...why don’t you try to get some sleep and we can talk when this is all over.”

He’s shaking his head before she finishes. “I don’t want to wait until this is over, and I won’t be able to sleep until I tell you...”

The air suddenly feels heavy, like it’s pushing her down, making it hard to breathe or think or move, but she manages to say, “Okay, I know you’re scared about tomorrow. So am I. But if this is because you think you’re not going to make it…”

“No—I mean, I don’t know how it will go tomorrow. I don’t know how it will go any night I’m out there. I can only control for so much of that. But the rest of my life...”

Felicity never fooled herself about her feelings for Oliver. She's always known where they are, and she can feel them just under the surface now, rushing like a river under a layer of ice. But if that ice breaks, and the river runs, it will flood everything, and it’s taken all these months to get it back under control. So, though she doesn't pull away, she does remain very still, even as he gets closer, even as his hands work around her fists, thumbs running over her knuckles. “Felicity, ever since last fall, it's like I've been sleepwalking through half my life, just getting through the days to get to the nights. Like I’ve been living in the dark. And when Diggle told me...all of a sudden the lights came back on, and I could see again. And the next thing I knew, I was on my way over here. To tell you that I don’t want to do that anymore; I don’t want to just be the Arrow.”

She blinks and says evenly, “QC is yours again. You’ll have it back officially by the end of the week.”

“Yeah,” he says, beginning to look anxious, “that’s not—I am happy about that. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about a whole life.” He swallows and takes a deep breath. “A life with you.”

“Oliver…”

“I’m not asking you to do anything right now. I have no right to ask anything of you, period. But I have to say all of this. Because I was wrong. This is possible.”

He looks down, and his face begins to lighten as he sees her hands opening to his. She let the river run. It’s sort of a marvel, how it never went away, how it was always right there underneath everything, how it’s rushing through her now, stronger than ever. Oliver intertwines their fingers and gently lifts their hands between them. “This will work if we let it, and I will work as hard as it takes if you let me. Because I love you. I love you so much, Felicity.”

He's still looking at their hands, and in a voice just above a whisper, she says, “I love you too but if you’re about to slip something into my hand, Oliver, I swear to God…”

A shocked laugh escapes him, and his hopeful eyes snap to hers, “No.”

She nods, biting her lip and she can hear his breathing, shallow and tentative. She can hear it because he’s getting closer, and they’re looking at each other in a way they haven’t allowed themselves in so long. Oliver’s eyes are cycling rapidly through emotions he’s kept hidden from her and it’s almost overwhelming just seeing them, but she feels them too. They watch each other for long enough to have a conversation that has eluded them for months.

And at the end of it, his lips find hers, and it feels as simple and imperative and perfect as taking a deep breath after emerging from underwater. She pours all that she has into it. All that she’s saved, all that she’s held back even from herself.

When they break and Oliver exhales, it sounds almost like a sob, and she takes his face in both hands, and he whispers, “Felicity?”

“Yes?”

“Does that offer still stand? Because I think I should stay here tonight.”

She kisses one corner of his mouth in response, and he groans lightly. “Tomorrow night, too,” she says, kissing his lips, holding onto the bottom lip for an extra beat. “After everything is over, you should probably come back here with me.” Gripping the back of his neck, she trails kisses up his jaw, and he lets out a ragged breath. Then she brushes her lips against his ear and breathes, “And the day after that, I don’t think we should leave the house at all.”

And then it’s his turn to take her face in his hands, pulling it back to him so he can kiss her again, forcefully and hungrily this time, before he sweeps her into his arms and into her bedroom. It feels like his room too, like theirs, immediately, as soon as he walks into it with her in his arms. This was always his place; he just had to find it.

And the next night, when it’s all over and everyone is okay, he’s in a daze until her voice is in his ear, the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

_Come home, Oliver._

And he does. Finally, only, always, to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading all of this! I'm probably taking a break at least until the series comes back, if not until the Winter hiatus (I like to be canon-compliant, usually, so it's hard for me to write fic when the canon is regularly updating). It's been a blast getting some of this stuff out of my system though, and getting the writing gears churning again. See you all soon.


End file.
